


The Maze Runner

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band), The Maze Runner (Movies)
Genre: I just stole the setting and the concept, I'll think of a better title for this later, M/M, The Maze Runner AU, This has nothing to do with James Dashner's OCs, soz James
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-05
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-04-24 23:29:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4938091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Maze Runner AU that no one asked for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've read TMR books and watched the movies, and I am aware they are very different, but in The Scorch Trials film, it is mentioned that there was more than just the two mazes. I began wondering what it would be like if the boys were in one of them and there appeared to be no other fanfiction written about it, so decided to write my own and just kind of ran with it (pardon the pun). 
> 
> Obviously, I own nothing; the boys belong to themselves and the Maze belongs to James Dashner.

He was running. 

He was pushing himself, sprinting so hard and fast that he could feel each individual pull of his muscles as he forced his legs to keep on going, and every painful expansion of his lungs as they struggled to draw breath through his bared teeth. His heart was squeezing with effort, making his veins ache with the force of his terrified pulse, yet there was nothing to do but keep going as he ran. One hand was pressed flat against his side, curling around his aching ribs in a protective gesture akin to someone who was physically tying to hold themselves together. Jolting pain shot up his leg from his sprained ankle each time his boot made contact with the unforgiving concrete floor, making each stride more difficult than the last. 

Though his mouth was sticky with thirst; his only source of water was currently dripping down his spine and making his shirt cling to his skin, and, in the one rational part of his mind that was untouched by fear; Blake knew the twists and turns of the Maze as well as any of the Runners; he knew from where he was, he could make it back to the safety of the Glade in less than ten minutes. Only, he didn’t have ten minutes; he also knew he was running out of time. The seconds displayed on his wristwatch slipped away with tormenting speed; counting down to the moment the entrance to the west wing of the Maze sealed shut for the night, inevitably trapping him inside with no foreseeable escape. 

Blake’s ragged panting and spasmodic footsteps echoed along the long corridors of the Maze, doing little to disturb the growing ivory that weaved and snaked it’s way along its colossal walls. He continued to push his body further; panic like battery acid seizing his muscles and protesting against each jerky movement. His ankle screamed in searing agony, his lungs rattling against his bruised ribs with each forced and shaking breath. He attempted to reason with his pain, whispering to comfort his racing mind, promising; just one more excruciating step, one more laboured gulp of air, one more squeezing thump of his already fatigued heart. 

The sun that once illuminated the endless grimy Maze walls with brilliant light was slipping under their endless expanse, casting a long silhouette over the labyrinth. Blake’s nerves jumped each time he saw the shadows shift from the corner of his stinging eyes, his step faltering; losing curial seconds. Blinking away the sweat that dripped into his eyes, causing his eyelashes to become sodden with moisture, he pressed his hand tighter around his ribs, muffling the tenderly bruised skin under trembling fingers. He was drawing nearer to the gaping entrance; relief flooding through his veins as he rounded the last corner, his boots slipping on the moss covered ground. He stumbled painfully, the soles of his running boots unable to find any form of traction, his throbbing ankle sliding under him, ripping an excruciated cry from deep within his throat. His numb hands reached out to catch himself before his body made contact with the greasy corridor base, pushing himself back up; the pain radiating from his ankle increasing ten-fold. Sweat and tears stung his eyes, making his vision hazy as his hobbled closer to the entrance. Blake sunk his teeth down into flaked flesh on his lower lip, the warm metallic taste of blood running over his tongue, lifting his head to stare down the barrel of the Maze. The entrance stood towering and inviting, the promise of the luscious green grass of the Glade was invisible behind the overwrought faces of his friends, howling shouts of encouragement at him as soon as he came into view.

How he had not noticed them before was startling; their voices were ringing in his ears, bouncing around the passageway. The small bud of hope that had bloomed in his chest was instantly obliterated as the bone-crushing sound of grating concrete rung along the corridor, shaking the ivory vines; the leaves quivering with the same force that rumbled through his gut. The boys at the entrance fell silent, mouths agape; the gates of the west entrance beginning their migration to meet in the middle, and effectively keep out – or in – any hell-born creatures that lurked in the darkness. Blake’s eyes scanned the few metres he had left, his eyes burning with exhausted tears. The Gladers restarted their previous screams of praise, but not one of them dared to step a foot past the threshold to help their friend. It was forbidden - and for good reason. As if to solidify his thoughts, a mechanical shriek echoed from somewhere within the heart of the Maze, turning Blake’s fiery blood to an icy sludge within seconds. The gates were closing faster than he was running, tears spilling down his face, streaking his dirt face with wet lines. 

Sobs wracked in his lungs as he closed in on the last few metres, the boy’s voices almost drowning out the shaking of the titanic concrete entrance sliding to a close. Their cries were silenced as doors met with a thunderous knock; in the same instance Blake’s body slammed into the cool surface; a helpless scream curdled in his throat as he dropped helplessly to his knees, slapping his palm against the unforgiving gate. More hopeless tears sprung into his eyes, slipping down and running over his chapped and cracked lips; his tongue felt thick in his mouth as he licked them away, sliding further down the surface until he sat with his back pressed firmly against the doors. 

Blake pressed the heel of his hand into his eye sockets, physically trying to push back the tears; his shoulders quivering with the effort yet whimpers still continuing to make it past his defence. His ankle throbbed with an agony that demanded to be felt, making the aching in the rest of his overly exhorted muscles feel like nothing more than a prickle in his side; the swelling pressing against the tightness of his securely laced boots. With shaking fingers and hitching breaths, Blake started picking at the knot of his boot, loosening the string enough for him to tug his bruised and blistered foot from it’s confides. The relief was scantily felt as his foot ached in anew pain, a wounded cry falling on the empty passageway. 

Another mechanical screech answered his own weep of desperation and Blake’s insides twisted with something rotten. The Grievers; the reason the Gladers weren’t permitted to step foot into the Maze. The same reason being a Runner was the most glorified yet dangerous work-task to be assigned; why no one ever volunteered to become a Runner. The creatures that were neither animal nor robotic, but instead a demonic combination of the both, scoured the Maze. The nocturnal monstrosities only immerging once the sun fell out of the sky, making way for the threatening black of night, brutally killing anything in their paths. Blake knew that no one had ever survived a night in the Maze; he also knew he was about to join the scattered dried-white bones of his friends that had fallen victim to the Grievers before him. 

It was useless to run, even if his blistering feet allowed him to take another step, and there was nowhere to hide; the stark walls of the endless labyrinth providing little to no shelter to take cover under. Instead, Blake sat silently with tears drying to his face, cradling his ribs, and his leg stretched out in front of him. Defeat was sitting heavily in his gut and he found himself savouring the unyielding pounding of his ankle because anything felt wonderful in comparison to the shuddering poison that swam in his blood as his eyes clenched closed automatically, mouth souring with fear. The congealed blood that had crusted in his hair had matted to his forehead and he no longer had the energy to brush it out of his eyes, lifting his arm would burn precious energy that he couldn’t afford to waste. 

Blake wasn’t sure how long he had been sitting there; his back no longer held feeling, his muscles protesting loudly at even the smallest of movements. The sunlight had long since faded, leaving only the weak reflective light of the moon to illuminate the eerie corridors. His listened as cement walls grinded along the floor, changing their patterns and creating a new network of the unsolvable. A gentle breeze that didn’t appear to have a direct source rustled the waxy leaves of the ivory, sending a howling burst of chilly air into the caverns, whipping against Blake’s face like a cool kiss on his heated skin. Despite having had been unmoving in the same spot for what felt like hours, Blake wasn’t naïve enough to consider he had even the slightest chance of serving the night; he knew better that to fill his heart with false hope. His mind raced with nerves, prickling at his belly with needle-sharp fingers; waiting for his inevitable death proved to more exhausting than the physical exertion of running the Maze. His small prayer of release was answered in the sound of the motorised tinkering of sharp metal legs picking against the cool concrete flooring. 

The air stuck and strangled in his throat as his breath scraped over his dry tongue. His heart pounded in his ears, blocking out rational thought in the wake of the pulsing rush of blood, sentient terror that took over his body and demanded that he get up right then that he move and make his body follow his command again because death was advancing upon him and he was inviting it in with open arms. He pressed his palms into the filthy ground, his biceps shaking with effort to push himself up, his ribcage fighting against each movement he forced his body to endure. He just had to move a little bit more, to ignore the throbbing pain in his side that was taking too long to abate. He had to bend his legs to stand back up again, so that he might be able to get out of there before anything could find him sitting there. 

Blake made it into a half-couched position, using the rough concrete of the entrance to brace himself, when a high-pitched mechanical wail pierced his eardrums. It was with close range and Blake was slammed with the realisation that the monster would be upon him long before he would be able to make it out of the corridor. Finally, he straightening his shoulders into a standing position, hovering his bare, swollen foot inches from the ground; the sudden rush of blood to the injured area sending white sparks of pain across his vision. His grip on the wall faulted slightly, swaying dangerously. The metallic ticking and wiring of the creature grew closer, and panic threatened to overwhelm him in those few seconds. His fingers trembled where they there pressed into the towering entrance, his fingernails biting into the harsh concrete. The gruesome bulging flesh of its body shone with a wetness as it came to an ungraceful halt at the entrance to the corridor, sliding into view with the same graceless jolting as the terror that slid into Blake’s veins. His breath was coming in short, panicked gasps that made it hard to see through his watering eyes. He blinked against the moisture in his eyes, and he wasn’t sure whether the tears were from fear or from the putrid smell of the monstrous beast that made them water.

Blake’s pulse raced around his veins, sending busts of adrenaline though his fatigued muscles; his heart lodged in his throat, restricting his breathing. His breath refused to pass his lips as he inhaled slowly, fighting the panic that clawed up into him; digging into every inch of him in those few moments of quiet that he waited for the Griever to notice him. The Griever rotated its repulsive body, metal legs sticking out from the blubber-like skin of its form, scanning down the passageway with red eyes that shone with the promise of Blake’s spilled blood. A treacherous scream ripped itself from somewhere deep within the creature, triggering Blake to flinch as the sound pierced his ears. In the back of his mind, a dark voice whispered; he had no doubt that sound would be heard throughout the Glade. The Griever began its descent, hobbling towards him with surprising speed. 

Blake pushed himself off the wall, lifting his head in defiance and squaring his shoulders despite the hot tears streaming down his cheeks in an endless cascade. Another screech reached his ears, chilling his blood and forcing new wave tears into his eyes as the weight of the situation came crashing down on him; less than sixteen years old, two short years trapped within the Maze surrounded Glade with no memory of who he was and how he had arrived there and his thumping heart was about to be stilled in its cradle. There was no glory, there was no falling in the midst of battle, there was no last battle cry or inspiring words; there was only searing pain and ice-cold terror that coiled in his belly. The Griever’s advances didn’t falter and it would be upon him in seconds, an endless scream echoing along the walls of the corridor; a blood-curdling wail Blake would never forget because it would be the last sound he would ever hear. 

He turned and embraced the panic that had made his heart race and his hands tremble, welcoming every single ounce of terror that the world could offer him until there was next to no unsteadiness in the fingers that gripped the wall behind him. The creature was within reaching distance; it’s rotten smell causing him to gag on the air that filled his lungs. Blake screwed his eyes shut, unable to face his death in his last moments as sharp metal legs and bulbous flesh ripped into his skin, sending an onslaught of unimaginable pain through his body.

Blake’s dying screams were heard at every corner of the Glade. Then, suddenly, they stopped. 

***

They had sixty seconds.

The siren echoed throughout the Glade, reverberating through the soft earth under their feet. All boys looked up from their workstations, eyes searching in the direction of the sound; some in fright, others with mild curiosity. The initial seconds of dread eased off as the noise continued to ring through their ears. In the middle of the clearing, a red warning light flashed atop a pole, pulsating out dull crimson light in time with the rhythmic blaring of the alarm. The sound shook through the Glade from unseen speakers, the soft grass trembling at its roots. Murmurs broke out amongst the boys as they left their stations, tools upturned and tasks half-completed, and began walking towards the flashing light; the sound of grating metal and wringing electricity joining that of the blaring siren, signaling the box had almost reached the top. 

It had become apart of a routine within the sanctity of the Glade. Once a month an elevator-like contraption of rusting metal and fraying wires or _the box,_ as the occupants of the Glade had named it, would be sent up from an unknown location deep within the earth. Large metal grates served as a protective cage to cover the box’s gaping entry system, hydraulically bolted shut until the box had reached the Glade, locking instantly after it had once again disappeared down the cold shaft. The box served as the Glades primary means of survival, always stocked with desperately needed supplies, crucial for existence – in the most basic means of the word. However, each month, the box would also send up another Glader; another boy to inhabit the small patch of land surrounded by the deadly Maze. The Glade was entirely inhabited by male occupants; never had they received a female tribute. Without fault, the box would supply a frightened, clueless boy, ranging from the ages of eleven to nineteen; mere children ripped away from their homes, their families, their lives and placed into an unknown foreign place. 

They had all arrived the same way, hunched over with the cold metal biting into their skin and with no memory of who it was who them or why. The memory wipe was most concerning of all, you were lucky if you remembered your own name. The box was a bittersweet reminder of how trapped the boys were within the Glade. It offered up medicine, building materials, food, animals for farming, but all at the cost of another boy being sentenced to a seemingly endless term in their prison-like confinement; the tall concrete walls that surrounded the glade made it almost impossible to forget how trapped they really were. 

Countless causes of their entrapped state were theorized; ranging from a reality TV program, to witness protection, to alien abductions, but no one knew for certain. It was all hearsay. No one truly believed any of the explanations they speculated on; pretending to know, however, gave a small sense of security and understanding, no matter how fleeting. The people who commissioned the Box, whoever they may be, were determined to keep the captives operative, providing everything needed in order for them to subsist, yet surrounded them with an intricate network filled with creatures that were designed to kill them, created only for their malevolent purpose. It was a senseless plight of constant juxtaposition. It was pointless to ponder on it, thinking about it only ever created more questions that will be left unanswered. The only solution was to distract themselves; pushing themselves until the point of mental and physical exhaustion, often coming in the form of backbreaking work, keeping the Glade self-sufficient and orderly.

All of the Gladers, excluding the boys working in the medical wing, hurried over to greet the newest unfortunate member of their faction. For some of the older Gladers, the one’s who had been there from the beginning, the novelty of another pubescent frightened child had long since subsided, gravitating towards the back of the throng of people. The packed earth quivered as the box neared the surface; many of the newer Gladers faces stricken with panic; the memory of being the one in the box just a few months prior stiff fresh in their minds. It is the first delivery since Blake’s death, many of the boys were still on edge after what had happened; not wanting to replace him so soon after he had given his life striving to discover a route out of the Maze. The loss of one of their own had devastated the Gladers; he hadn’t been the first to fall victim to the Maze, and it was Naïve to think he would be the last. 

When the alarm had sounded, Harry raised his head; his hands still slippery from the dish soap he was using scrub the pots and pans in the kitchen, preparing them for the next meal. He watched with mild eyes as the surrounding Gladers began to drop their tools, exchange looks of wariness and minor interest, starting the brief journey to the source of the vibrating earth. The kitchen slowly emptied as the boys around Harry filed out to join the others crowding around the grate-covered chasm in the ground, peering into the darkness beyond. ‘Kitchen’ was a strong word; the structure nothing more than a few handmade benches with a derelict wood oven and a large uneven table in the centre for preparing the food, all covered by a leaky roof to protect the cooks from the elements. Cracked plates and unpolished silverware stacked up high, towering over the abandoned workstations.

Harry cleaned his hands on his filthy apron, if it could be called that, nothing more that a scrap piece of material he wrapped around his waist to protect his clothes from spitting grease. He was the last to leave the kitchen, taking one last look towards the rundown shack before following the rest of the crowd, walking calmly. Fellow Gladers rushed around him, shoving past and knocking his shoulders in their haste, eager to reach the metal enclosure threading up from the abyss on a ambiguous pulley system. 

Harry reached it just as the final gong of the alarm sounded, the reverberating grass under his boots rattling his lungs in his ribcage. He smiled absentmindedly at the boy standing next to him who nodded in return before turning back to cleaning dirt out from under his nails, obviously not at all interested in the chaos in front of them. Harry couldn’t see the box from where he was standing, blocked out by the other Gladers; his line of vision only met with the backs of unruly hair and sweating backs. With the siren no longer blearing, the air was only filled with curious whispers. 

Liam, their appointed leader, appeared at Harry’s shoulder, his face calm and collected. Liam was the first to be sent up in the box, the years for hard work and constant worry starting to show in the deep lines on his youthful face; his thick brows set in an unyielding frown, sitting low on his eyes, his skin baked from long hours in the sun. He looked approximately eighteen and, despite having older Gladers in their midst, everyone looked up to Liam more guidance. He patted Harry on the back as he passed, half out of friendliness and half as a warning for Harry to move out of his way, his hand landing heavily in the junction between his shoulder blades, jolting him forward slightly. Harry stepped to the side without question and Liam strode past him easily, followed quickly by Zayn, the Keeper of Inventory. He clutched a clipboard to his chest as he sidestepped the boys who fell back into place as soon as Liam had passed them, seeming to buzz with a nervous energy. Harry kept his eyes on the back of Liam’s head, watching carefully as he shifted though the hoard with ease. The electric sound of the automatic-locking box clicked as Liam arrived, releasing the deadbolts that kept it closed with a hiss of compressed air and Liam disappeared from Harry’s line of sight as he bent to open the box, the squeaking of metal of the doors opening cutting off all the boy’s chatter. 

Harry shifted his weight, leaning up on his toes to get a clearer visual of the commotion, but was only met with the backs of his friends, broad shoulders and wild hair. He was almost knocked off balance as someone thumped into him, pushing him into the boy in front of him; Harry’s chest was met with the rigid muscular back of the Glader, reaching out desperately to stop himself from falling any further. Harry mumbled his apology to the scowling Glader who he recognized as one of the Builders, tasked with construction and architectural upkeep of the Glade, before turning to give a verbal lashing to whoever it was who shoved him. His insults died on his tongue, however, when he was met with blonde hair and an almost painful looking grin,

“Niall, what are you doing? Shouldn’t you be in the infirmary?” Harry smiled despite the worried tone in his voice, his eyes flickering over the boy searching for any potential injury. 

Niall looked to where his arm was bandaged all the way up to his elbow and shrugged, once again meeting Harry’s eyes. “Felix said I could leave.” 

“Which means you snuck out?” Harry offered, ignoring the clanging of metal coming from somewhere in front of them. Felix, the Keeper of the Med-Jacks, was not a person you wanted to confront, he was excellent at his work, yet he could cut you down with a single glance and if he had a good side, Niall definitely was not on it; ending up in the infirmary every other week with all sorts of slices and lacerations from working in the Bloodhouse, disturbing Felix’s other patients with his loud and unruly behavior. Niall’s blue eyes shone with mirth, rivaling the cloudless sky while his toothy smile challenged the sun. 

“Okay. I snuck out, so what? Almost two years in this place and I’ve never once missed a new arrival and I’ll be damned if I start now.” He raised a finger, shaking it in Harry’s face in a fashion that would have been threatening if it hadn’t been for Niall’s luminous grin. Harry was about to reply when there was a shout coming from somewhere towards the front of the pack, drawing everyone’s attention forward. 

“Give him some space!” It was Liam, his voice gruff and authoritative, cracking like a whip. “I said back up!” 

The hoard in front of them shuffled slightly and Harry and Niall exchanged a look of confusion, eyebrows knitting together. The dull buzz of chatter started up again and Harry caught the tail-ends of mumbled conversations, grasping nothing important enough to give them an understanding of what was happening. He was concentrating on the lisped whispers of the Glader to his left he missed one of the boys towards the front began pushing his way back through the crowd; weaving in and out of the curious bodies, having to push a few out of the way in his haste. 

It was only bought to his attention when Niall jabbed him in the ribs with his sharp elbow, eliciting a yelp of surprise out of Harry’s mouth. Niall deflected the shove Harry sent his way, taking Harry’s wrist in his fingers and stepping back, causing Harry to lunge forward; the one swift movement executed without removing his flickering gaze from the boy the ducked towards the outskirts of the crowd. Niall released his wrists in time to catch the boy’s forearm as he scurried passed them, his chin tucked into his chest and his eyes unfocused, jerking him to a stop. Only then when he lifted his head did Harry recognize him as Luke, one of the boys who worked with Niall in the Bloodhouse. He looked up from under his shaggy chestnut hair, nibbling at his lip worriedly. 

“What’s going on up there, man?” Niall asked in a hushed whisper, as if he was requesting he share an incriminating secret. 

“I have to get Felix.” He said determinedly, as if that would be enough to dissuade him. Luke went to pull away but Niall held him fast, whirling him back around to face him with one jerk of his arm, his finger curling in tighter around his bones.

“We can’t see shite back here. C’mon. Give us something.” Niall urged and, this time, it did sound like a threat. Luke’s brown eyes flicked nervously between Niall and Harry’s faces, weighing up his options despite all three of them knowing he would tell Niall whatever he wanted to know. 

“It’s the newbie. He’s… Unconscious.” Niall’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, his blue eyes sparking with incredulity. 

“Unconscious?” Harry questioned, disbelief colouring his tone. Never had they received anyone not in optimal physical health; even now, years after being captive in the Glade, the common cold was more of a rarity than any physical injury caused by a work-related task. The tributes were freaked out and panicked, some soiling themselves before they had the chance to pull their body out of the box, but they were always awake and responsive, never unconscious. 

“He’s not breathing!” A voice towards the anterior of the group yelled. Luke’s eyes turned from nervous to panicked.

He began picking at Niall’s fingers still clenched around his arm, prying the digits off one by one “Please, I need to get Felix.” 

Niall released him, giving him a slight pat on the back as he sidestepped them and sprinted towards the infirmary, his shoes kicking up grass in his haste. Both Harry and Niall watched him go, perplexity etched into their features. 

“That’s never happened before.” Niall whispered again, looking to Harry as if he could tell him the reasons for their current situation. 

“I know.” He sighed back. He stood up on his toes, craning his neck to get a glimpse of the box. 

“I’m going to see what’s going on, c’mon.” Niall ducked under the arms of the boys in front of them before Harry had a chance to reach out and stop him.

“Niall!” Harry scolded in a hushed whisper. He watched as the other Gladers swallowed up his friend, disappearing into the sea of dull coloured t-shirts and sunbaked skin. 

Harry cursed under his breath, but followed his friend. He ducked and weaved past the tight group, his feet finding small patches of earth to use as foot holds while apologizing every time his hands would find themselves pressed against his fellow Gladers in a rather inappropriate manner. He caught up with Niall before he got to the front of the crowd, grabbing him by the forearm –the one that wasn’t covered in bandages. It did little to slow him down, however, pulling Harry after him as he broke through the inner ring of the mass. They stumbled into the small circle the boys had formed surrounding the new arrival.

Harry’s eyes fell on his limp body instantly, cradled in Liam and another boy’s arms as they lifted him out of the box, his head lulling back, and his chest motionless. His face seemed paler than the tanned completion of his arms that hung limp and useless, swaying lifelessly with each movement Liam made. If it hadn’t been for his sleep-like state, Harry would have assumed this boy was perfectly fine; there was not a bruise or a scratch on him. He had the same simple clothes on that all they boys were sent up in; a black cotton t-shirt, khaki trousers, and plain running shoes. His face was clean and his soft brown hair looked recently washed, the strands bending in the breeze that swelled around the Glade. There was nothing to suggest this boy should be anything but alive and healthy. 

Liam jostled him in his arms as he carried him over to the lip of the box, his brow furrowed. Instinctively, Harry rushed forward as they began lowering him onto the dusty ground surrounding the box, Niall close behind him. He reached out to catch him, supporting his neck and pulling him over the threshold of the box while Niall’s good arm looped under his knees. As gently as possible, not wanting to give this boy any more potential injuries, Harry placed him on the ground; his mind raced with sour thoughts as he watched his head drop to the side and his hands lay unmoving. Harry slipped his hand out from under the crook of his neck, but not without noticing the warmth radiating into his palm, sending sparks up his arm. _He’s still warm. If he’s dead, he hasn’t been dead long._

The surrounding boys crowded in closer as Liam pulled himself out of the box and fell to his knees beside Harry. He pushed Harry out of the way slightly as he reached around the lifeless boy’s neck, feeling for a pulse, in the same instance Harry leaned down to press his ear to the centre of the boy’s chest, feeling for any movement. A heartbeat, a breath, anything. Harry’s heart was lodged his throat as he listened intently, feeling his own blood rushing through his ears.

Liam cursed, and changed the positioned of his fingers, “Everyone shut up!” He ground out, staring at that unmoving face, and he nearly started Harry at how croaky his voice sounded, worry blossoming on his face as he changed the angle of his fingertips once more.

Thankfully, everyone followed the command; their voices cutting off abruptly and, with his ear pressed to the warm flesh of a stranger praying for a sound, the sudden silence was deafening. Niall sat back on his haunches, watching the scene unfold in front of him. Harry scrunched his eyes shut, mentally willing the boys heart to contract and release, pleading for even a single beat, 

“Please - _please._ ” He whispered under his breath. He was only met with silence. He repeated his plea until the words were nothing more than a blubbering mess of syllables, sounding foreign, even to his own ears. He screwed his eyes tighter, holding his breath until they burned with the need for oxygen, straining his ears. Then… _Duh Dun._

“Did you feel that?” Harry mumbled into the fabric of his shirt, then the sound came again. A heartbeat. Harry’s eyes flew open and he sat up so quickly his mind was struck with dizziness, vertigo swishing in his gut. Ignoring the swaying, he searched for Liam, his eyebrows hooded over his serious brown eyes. “He’s alive!” 

At the same time the words left Harry’s mouth the boy beneath them suddenly came to life like a bolt of lightning; gasping, inhaling a large gulp of air, his back arching of the dusty ground with the force of his breath. His eyes opened wide enough for Harry to see the white surrounding his iris, his mouth frozen as his breath got caught in his throat. His bight blue eyes glazed over, staring ahead at the sky above them. One hand scrabbling at the loose dirt at his side while the other landed at Harry’s knee, his blunt nails cutting into Harry’s skin through the material of his trousers. Gasps from the surrounding crowd filled the air, and, as if only just realizing he wasn’t alone, the boy’s head snapped towards the group. His eyes were frightened and shining, scanning the unfamiliar faces, a look of shock was still frozen on his features. His gaze finally came to rest on Harry and it made his heart sink, how terrified this boy appeared, hooded blue eyes wide, thin lips trembling, his face multiple shades paler than the rest of his body. 

They shared a brief look before his body began lurching without warning, snapping Harry out of his reverie. He reached up to catch the hand closest to him and pinning it to the ground, watching as Liam did the same for his other arm and someone from the group rushed in to help Niall constrain his kicking legs. He didn’t seem to be in control of his convulsions, his back arching and his jaw clenching as jolts quivered through his body. His biceps tensed under Harry’s palm as his fingers curled into a fist, slamming down into the earth with a surprising amount of force.

Felix appeared at the edge of the group with Luke in tow; he stood to the side for a moment, assessing his patient, his worn leather medical bag knocking against his knee. He regarded the twitching body for a moment longer, his eyes stony and clinical. The boy beneath them gave a particularly large jolt, smacking his head down on the soil and letting out a heart-wrenching cry as a blood-curdling crack rattled through his bones. It seemed to snap Felix into action, falling to his knees beside his head, placing one hand on the boy’s sweaty forehead while the other rummaged through his medical bag. It proved to be a difficult feat with the boy’s head lashing back and forth on his neck. 

Harry’s eyes rapidly glanced over everyone’s faces; Felix was calm but something in his eyes told Harry his heart was racing as fast as his own. There was a deep line forming in Liam’s brow while a frown pulled at his lips, using both hands to keep the boy still; one on his forearm and the other bracing his shoulder, very similar to the grip Harry had on him. Niall had a pained grimace twisting on his face, no doubt having been kicked in his injured arm, but he held the boy’s leg down all the same, refusing to give an inch. The boy who had rushed forward to help was on the same side as Harry, he met Harry’s eyes, and Harry watched him swallow hard. Finally, Harry looked down to where the boy under him still pulsed and jerked, his eyes steeling and his teeth clenched. Harry could only imagine what he, himself, looked like. 

As if hit by a sudden wave of relief, the boy’s body stopped jerking abruptly. His muscles relaxed and he let out a long breath, sinking back down to the ground as his fingers unwound from their tight fist. The tightness around Harry’s heart released slightly, but he wasn’t sure how long it would be be until another set of convulsions hit. After exchanging a quick look with Liam, it was silently agreed that they weren’t to release him yet. 

“Hey,” Felix’s gravely voice cut through the hushed whispers of the Gladers. He waved his hand in front of the boys face, gaging for some sort of reaction. His eyes rolled back in his head and Harry gripped his arms tighter, worried he might start to spasm again. “Hey,” Felix repeated, “Can you open your eyes for me?” 

The boy’s eyelashes fluttered as he struggled to blink. Felix pulled a stethoscope out of his bag, placing it in his ears and pressing the chestpeice over his heart. The boy’s eyelashes fluttered again, trying to fight falling into unconscious. Felix listened for a moment, silencing the surrounding group with a wave of his hand, the only one, despite Liam, to be able to suppress a rowdy group of teenage boys with a simple hand gesture. 

“Harry, grab his hand.” Felix commented without taking his eyes off the rise and fall of the limp boy’s chest. Harry didn’t question him, slipping his hand down from where it was braced against his forearm to wrap around his cold fingers. His hand was much smaller than Harry’s and it was almost engulfed by his palm alone. Before he could dwell on it, Felix was speaking again. “Squeeze your right hand if you can here me.” Harry felt his finger twitch in his hand. It happened again a moment later, this time with more pressure, with purpose. 

“He can hear you.” Harry looked up from where his fingers continued to squeeze, turning almost painful. 

“Okay, can you open your eyes?” Felix pulled out a small flashlight from his bag. His eyelashes fluttered again, this time showing a small peak of blue before falling shut again. He tried again, and this time his eyes opened all the way up, staring up to where Felix was leaning over him. 

“Good. I’m going to shine a light in your eyes quickly, alright?” He clicked on the torch and held it directly over his right eye. 

From where Harry sat he could see his pupil dilate under the light the dull blue disappearing under the expanding black, and he couldn’t imagine what it was Felix was looking for, but he seemed satisfied with the response and moved on to the next eye. When he was done, he checked a few more things but the boy’s eyes didn’t move from where they were fixed on the sky above, mixing the hues in a swirl of blue. He still held tightly to Harry’s hand and Harry didn’t have the heart to remove it. 

“Alright. You seem okay, but I’ll have to take you to the infirmary and keep an eye on you for the next few days, just to make sure those seizures don’t return.” Felix murmured despite the boy seeming catatonic and started to write something down on a clipboard one of the other Med-Jacks had given him. For a few moments there was just the sound of a pencil scraping against paper. Then it stopped and Felix looked over the top of his clipboard, “Can you tell me your name?” 

For the first time since opening his eyes, the boy blinked, his eyes focusing on Felix, “It’s Louis.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please excuse any spelling/grammatical errors, I've tried editing but I'm very tired and sometimes they slip through. xo

The crunching of concrete of the Maze entrances, the only disturbance to break the chilly morning air, was not an unusual sound to be heard throughout the Glade; at least not to Harry. Unlike the other Gladers, Harry rose with the sun; long before anyone else has begun to stir in their beds, the first light of day making it impossible for him to fall back to sleep after he’d been touched by the delicate blue-hued light. 

A slight shiver crept over his vertebrae as his boots crunched unbearably loud on the dewed grass, breaking the calm that had settled over the Glade through the night. He folded his fingers around the sharp joints of his elbows, locking himself in a loose embrace to keep in some of the warmth stored in his chest as he makes the short journey to the rundown kitchen. When he arrived, he noticed with settled content, everything is as he left it; dishes and cutlery stacked high and leaning on dangerous angles, saucepans and soup pots sitting in unarranged disarray, freshly sharpened knives laying haphazardly on the benches. With a sigh of contentment, Harry reached down to retrieve his apron from where he’d placed it the night before, flicking out the folded material and trying it around his narrow waist; his eyes searching the kitchen for his tools. 

The embers in the oven still glowing brilliant orange surrounded by black coals, fighting to push a flame out of the ashen wood. Harry took two of the wooden planks of firewood lying in an arbitrary pile next to the oven and dropped them into the fire for more fuel. He pulled out a pot from under one of the benches, placing it on the wood fire stove and filling it with water to boil. While he waits for the water, Harry foraged for food in the closest thing to a pantry the glade has. Harry dragged out a large calico bag filled with oatmeal, a loaf of almost stale bread balancing in the crook of his arm and a jar filled with a sticky, sweet, black jam made from the berries that grow along the line of the forestry. He placed the items on the bench as starts scooping cups full of dry oatmeal into the boiling water; it’s bland and flavourless, but it was a hearty breakfast that would give the Runners the energy to make it through the day. Harry started on making portable lunches for the runners to take with them into the maze; a liberal spread of the black jam over the crusty bread, an apple, and a handful of tree nuts. He placed each of the items in the seven drawstring hessian sacks lined up in front of him. 

He finished pulling the last drawstring tight when he hears the commotion from the Runners sleepily trudging towards the kitchen; eyes sunken and boots dragging on the dew-wet grass. There were seven Runners in total; originally, there was eight, two for each entrance of the maze, until Blake failed to return in time and the spot was unable to be filled, very few of the Gladers willing to put their lives in danger each day. The boys arrived in twos and threes, falling heavily into the stools at the centre kitchen island, accepting the warm bowl of porridge Harry placed in front of them with welcome thanks. Meaningless conversation picked up between the boys, even exchanging a few gruff laughs over their food, and Harry watched them silently, leaning back against the counter and picking at his own bowl of oatmeal. 

Harry swirled his spoon around in his breakfast, watching as his spoon clinked against the bottom of his bowl; the cream coloured slop dripping off the tip of his spoon and landing back in the bowl with a wet plop. Hunger didn’t niggle at the bottom of his stomach as it usually would every other morning, instead, a cold weight seemed to fill his insides; a feeling he hadn’t been able to shake since the moment the boy had arrived in the box not 24 hours ago. His frightened blue eyes haunted Harry’s dreams, the way his mouth had been frozen in a silent scream flashed in his vision every time Harry closed his eyes, his raspy broken voice played on a continuous loop in Harry’s mind. 

The cluttering of bowls snapped Harry’s attention up from where he had been mindlessly staring at a notch in the wood of the kitchen island, his thoughts coming back down to reality. The Runners were stacking their now-empty bowls in a fashion Harry had taken three months insisting that they do. Their spoons clattered onto the countertop as they rose from their stools, a few members stretching out their limbs and readying themselves for the day ahead. Harry accepted the mountain of dishes with a curt smile and carried them, along with his own almost untouched bowl, over to the dish washing station; a couple of large soup pots still soaking in the water from the night before. He placed them to the side to deal with later, spinning back on his heal in time to see the Runners stuffing the lunch bags with their food into their pouches and he accepted their murmurs of thanks with a small nod. Before long, the kitchen emptied until only Harry remained, watching with unfocused eyes as the Runners made their way to their respective maze entrances.

The morning sun bathed the Glade in gentle yellow light; the farm animals in the fields starting to stir and birds nested in the forestry beginning to sing their morning song, most of the Gladers still fast asleep. Harry braced one hand on the countertop and dug the heal of his other palm into the hollow of his eye socket, relieving some of the pressure that had started to build behind his eyes. Sighing with an air of determination, Harry heaved up another large pot and placed it on the stovetop to begin making a broth. 

Less than 30 minutes later, the sun had well and truly risen. Gladers were dragging themselves out of their beds to prepare for the day ahead; rubbing at their bleary eyes and stretching out their cramped muscles. Kitchen hands slowly started to trickle in to the kitchen, arriving to start the preparations of feeding the mass of hungry boys. The last of them arrived just as Harry had finished packing pears, soft bread, and broth into a rickety cart made by the Builders too many years ago, to deliver to the infirmary. His work mates yawned their greetings and patted him on the back as he left, James going as far enough as so slap him on the bum as he passed, and, despite his drawn mood, Harry couldn’t help the small smile tugging at the side of his mouth as he glared in James’ general direction. James grinned wide, turning on his heal and skipping over to the washing station to tackle the baked on dreg of the pots and pans, expressing too much vitality for so early in the morning. 

Harry pushed the cart, his boots sliding slightly in the drying grass as he carefully heaved the splintering wood across the Glade. He arrived at the infirmary in relatively good time, the broth still warm in the pot. Harry pushed open the creaky door with his back and dragged the cart in after him, the bowls clanking together as he passed through the threshold. The Infirmary was the largest building in the glade, but even then, the structure wasn’t huge; four walled off rooms for patients with more private matters and a larger room with three beds line up along opposite walls, separated by thin sheets hanging from the ceiling for a little discretion for the patients with less troubling matters. 

Harry hauled his cart to the larger communal room first, long ago having learnt his lesson about leaving Niall to last when it comes to the breakfast rounds. He passed one of the medjacks, Brian, on his way in and placed a pear on his desk, smiling down at him sympathetically when he looked up from scribbling down some medical notes, purple rings encompassing his dull brown eyes. Brian accepted the offer with a sigh and a tired smile, nodding his thanks as Harry continued his way down the hall. Harry stopped his cart in the middle of the room, moving around to take the top bowl off the stack and filled it with a ladle of broth, tore off a chunk of bread, and picked out another pear out of his basket and took them to the furthest bed. He slipped behind the curtain, eyes landing on the boy sleeping under the scratchy sheets; angry red burns peaking out from under the bandaging covering his shoulder. Harry placed the food on the small wooden cabinet to the side of the bed and put a gentle hand on his forearm, 

“Sebastian,” Harry whispered, shaking the boy’s arm lightly. Sebastian’s eyes flew open, his gaze instantly falling on Harry, his muscles visibly relaxing. He opened his mouth to say something as he righted himself in the bed, but Harry shushed him before he could get a word out, “I have your breakfast. Do you need help with it?” Sebastian shook his head, wincing slightly at the movement and Harry nodded, handing him the bowl and bread, the pear still sitting on the cabinet.

“Enjoy. I hope you’re feeling better.” Harry smiled as he ducked back out. 

Harry had long ago figured out that the less conversation, the better. These boys had people fussing over them all day long and the last thing they needed, or wanted, was to be pestered by the nosy kitchen hand. 

He repeated the process a few more times; the infirmary rather busy, only one bed in the communal room left unused. Harry came up to Niall’s bed, and placed his food on the cabinet before pinching his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Niall quiet snores instantly cut off with a choking sound as his eyes widened and he breathed a gasp in through his mouth. Niall tried to push Harry off with his bandaged arm before wincing and bringing it back to cradle against his chest. Harry released his with a small chuckle.

“You’re the worse.” Niall muttered, his fingers wrapped protectively around his forearm and frown hovering above his sleep-puffy eyes. 

“True, but, I bought you food, so I’m sure you’ll forgive me.” Harry said matter-of-factly and Niall’s eyes lightened with delight, sitting up higher against his pillows.

Harry handed him the bowl, Niall’s grabby hands closing around the dish with a pleased smile. The lip of the bowl is instantly pressed against his mouth and he took a long gulp of flavoursome liquid, moaning in appreciation. Harry smiled smugly, brushing Niall’s fringe off his forehead before dropping a kiss to his hair,

“Feel better.” Harry offered with a wave and Niall nodded around the bowl, making a disgusting slurping sound. 

Harry rolled his eyes once he was out of sight and made sure the bowls were in no danger of falling before he continued back the way he had come, the cart’s handles digging into his palms. He came to a stop outside of the first walled room, an off-coloured strip of material acting as a door. He prepared the broth and bread, throwing the pear up and catching it again as he pushed his way into the room. Similar to the more public beds, this room only had a bed pushed up against the far wall with a rickety cabinet against it’s side, the only difference being a unsteady chair in the corner and this room was closed off to prying eyes. 

In the bed lay a young boy, no older than twelve, curled in on himself, his arms wrapped tightly around his middle and his face scrunched into one of agony. 

“Ben?” Harry asked quietly as he entered the room.

The boy made a sound of acknowledgement, but didn’t move. Harry placed his meal to the side, watching as Ben’s toes curled against he sheets and a pained whimper fell from his lips. His heart ached in his chest as he looked down at the boy, his skin pale and his bones protruding even through the material of his shirt, his hair a greasy mess against the pillow. Despite his rule, Harry has a soft spot for Ben; he was one of the youngest Gladers, a sweet, gentle, very sick boy. Harry wedged himself into the space between Ben’s back and the edge of the bed, the notches of his spin digging into the meat of Harry’s thigh. 

“Hey,” Harry whispered, reaching out a hand to brush through the matted strands of Ben’s black hair. “How are you feeling?” 

Ben shuffled, then, rolling over on the bed until he was looking up at Harry with watery blue eyes, sniffing lightly. He tried a smile, his lips wavering for a moment before he whimpered again and a new wave of tears breached his eyes. Harry bit back the stinging in his own eyes as he watched Ben cry into the pillow, unable to stop himself as he pulled Ben up and into his side for a hug, his heart pulling at the unhealthy weight of the boy as he fell into Harry. Ben’s face buried in Harry’s neck and Harry ran a soothing and hesitant hand along the skin of his arm, able to feel each bone pushing against the skin in an effort to break free. 

Harry held him without complaint; he couldn’t imagine being thrown into the Glade as young as Ben had. He was a child– still is a child, and Harry couldn’t wrap his mind around the idea of someone who would ever put a frightened child into this place of hardship and monsters. Anger bubbled in Harry’s chest as it always did whenever he saw Ben; his anger wasn’t towards Ben, it was for Ben. How dare anyone do this to a child, to any of them. 

Before Harry’s frustrations could get the better of him, a sound coming from the room over caught both his and Ben’s attention, their eyes both flickering over to the wall separating them. The sound, a wooden chair being scraped against the floor, was soon followed by a raised voice. Harry looked down at Ben quickly, blue eyes already staring up at him. 

“I’m going to go and see what’s wrong. You just try and eat something, okay?” Ben nodded and Harry gave his shoulder a very gentle squeeze before he untangled himself from Ben’s grip, able to feel his eyes on his back until he slipped back out of the room. 

Someone was still yelling; the words nonsensical, but the tone unmistakable. Harry entered without knocking, the curtain swishing behind him. He stopped in his tracks in the doorway as he gaged the situation unfolding in front of him, surprise clearly shown on his face. 

The boy from the box, Louis, was standing with this legs planted in a defensive stance, a syringe filled with clear liquid poised in his palm wielding it like a weapon. His eyes meet Harry’s as soon as he entered, his grip on the syringe tightening as his eyes narrowed. Felix and another medjack, Sam, were already in the room to Harry’s left, their hands raised palm up to show they are harmless. Felix was mumbling reassurances that sounded suspiciously like threats, his tone sharp and curt, but his words fell on deaf ears, Louis’ eyes unwavering on Harry. Hands still raised unthreateningly, Felix went to take a step forward. Louis’ gaze instantly found him and he surged forward with the needle, not enough to make contact, but enough for Felix to retreat to his previous position. 

Harry had been around the infirmary long enough to know the syringe in Louis’ hand was nothing more than a mild sedative that gave a paralytic effect long enough for the patience to escape his pain and get some rest. Despite the clear serum not likely to do any damage, the idea of getting his neck pierced with the sharp bite of a needle was not an appealing one. 

Sam took a careful step forward, subtle enough for Louis not to notice. He took another, Louis catching him with a scowl that could make milk curdle, his blue eyes as sharp as the needle in his fingers. Louis’ lips were pulled into a tight grimace and his teeth were bared slightly, his hair wild and unkempt, the syringe not wavering in his grasp. He looked feral, and unequivocally terrified. Harry remembered how frightened he been when he had arrived in the box and he had felt exactly how Louis looked. 

All the commotion of Louis yelling and Felix’s failed attempts to calm him had attracted more bystanders crowding around the door; a few more medjacks and some of the more mobile patients, Niall among them, rubbing his eyes sleepily. Louis’ eyes jumped over the new faces, panic building behind his blue irises as his gaze danced around the room. 

Harry took the momentary distraction in Louis’ hard gaze to slyly step to his right, closer to the portable medjack’s table that was taken around to each of the patients, filled with a number of drugs and clean bandages. His fingers closed around a second syringe, not dissimilar to the one Louis was wielding, filled with the same clear liquid. He slid it along the surface, curling his palm around it and pressing it against his wrist, his forearm effectively concealing it from the frightened boy’s sight. With a calming breath to settle the nerves niggling at the edges of his stomach, Harry took a step forward, his free hand raised in surrender. 

“Louis, right?” The sureness in his own voice surprised Harry, but he tried not to let it show as Louis’ gaze snapped to him, confusion darkening his eyes. Harry powered on, taking another step forward, “Listen, I know you’re frightened, and confused, but I need you to understand when I tell you, we’re not trying to hurt you.” 

Louis didn’t immediately lunge at him, and Harry took another ginger step forward, lowering his hand from in front of his face, “Look around you,” Harry gestured vaguely to the room, taking yet another step towards him. “This is an infirmary. We’re trying to help you.” For the first time, Louis’ expression wavered, “I promise I’ll tell you everything you want to know just… please,” Harry was close enough that he could see the tears welling in Louis’ eyes and the slight wobble to his chin. With his hand still out in front of him, his hand closing over Louis’ own trembling fingers clinging tightly to the syringe. Harry took the final step forward, his boots meeting the tips of Louis’ bare toes, close enough for Harry to count the light freckles splattered over his nose. Carefully, Harry began guiding Louis’ hand down, “Put down the syringe.”

Louis didn’t fight against Harry’s grip and Harry can feel everyone in the room watching him with baited breath as he continued to lower Louis’ hand, positioning his own syringe in his fingers. Harry tightened his hand on Louis’ to stop his from pulling away as he lined up the needle with the meat of Louis’ outer thigh. Louis’ breath was shaky as he breathed out against Harry’s face and Harry leaned in close enough that their chest almost touched, 

“I’m sorry.” Harry whispered into his ear and he pushed the needle into his leg, piecing the skin through the material of his loose cotton pants with ease, pressing down the syringe and delivering the sedative. 

He felt Louis’ gasp against his neck as he pulled back enough for Harry to see the dam break behind shining blue eyes, tears splashing down his cheeks as he watched Harry with parted lips. Louis dropped the syringe he was holding, not flinching as it hit the floor with a clack. Harry pulled the needle out of his leg, watching as Louis swayed dangerously on the spot, his eyelids fluttering heavily as his hands reached out to brace himself on Harry’s forearms. His fingers seemed to bleed warmth into Harry’s bare arm as Harry’s free hand steadied him on Louis’ elbow. With one more drawn out blink of delicate blue eyes and uneven breath, Louis collapsed completely into Harry, his chest crashing into Harry’s without ceremony. Harry had to drop his syringe, the needle joining Louis’ on the floor, catching Louis’ unconscious body before he hit the floor, supporting his entire weight. 

There was a moment where Harry held Louis in his arms, chests pressed together and Louis face resting against Harry’s shoulder, breath warm air over Harry’s neck. Harry shut his eyes momentarily, guilt already swelling in his lungs. When he opened his eyes, he turned his head to look over Louis’ hair, his eyes falling on the group crowded in the doorway. As if able to read his mind, Sam rushed forward and scooped Louis’ legs up from the floor to help Harry carry him over to the bed. Harry lowered him gently, supporting his neck as his head hit the pillow and Louis’ eyes flickered under his eyelids. Brian joined them at the bed and set about restraining Louis’ wrists to the bed with warn strips of leather to prevent a repeat of the incident. 

Harry stepped back to let Brian through, rubbing his forearms where Louis’ nails had bitten into his skin, Harry’s own fingers ghosting over the red crescent shapes. 

Once Louis was safely secured and the patients had been shepherded back to their beds, the room slowly emptying, Felix’s hand on Harry’s shoulder startled him out of his thoughts. 

“You did well, mate.” Felix offered what Harry can only assume is a smile. 

“What…. Happened?” Harry wondered out loud, his fingertip still dancing over his skin. 

“Sam was giving him his morning needle, to give him a few more hours of uninterrupted rest.” He looks over to Louis’ calm face. With his hand still on Harry’s shoulder, Felix guides Harry towards the door; ”You know how Liam would want him up and working as soon as he was awake. He woke up before Sam could give him the needle. Snatched it off him, he did.” 

They reach the entrance where Niall was standing at the entry of the room, leaning against the doorjamb, nursing his arm against his chest. Harry stopped beside Niall and Felix brushed his way past on his way out.

“Serves him right. Sam is shit at giving needles.” Niall commented, smirking over Harry shoulder as Sam raised his middle finger in their direction. “He’s a feisty one, isn’t he?” Niall continued conversationally, and Harry made a sound somewhere between a scoff and a sigh. 

He glanced back over his shoulder, his bottom lip drawn between his teeth as his eyes land on the boy with the slack face and the slowly rising chest, looking almost peaceful if it weren’t for the thick straps of leather binding his wrists. 

“I like him!” Niall announced proudly with a toothy grin and Harry turned to meet his bright eyes, his lips tugging with his own smile. 

***

Harry was perched on the island in the kitchen, his feet swinging back and forth as he hummed a tune to himself, pealing potatoes and finding mild amusement in antics of the kitchen hands around him. James was taking turns in serenading each of the workers, using the carrot he was preparing as a microphone. A light smile played on Harry’s face as James danced around the boys, narrowly avoiding pulling a pan of hot oil onto himself and scalding his body. He came to a stop in front of Harry pointing at him and strutting towards him in an over-exaggerated manner, a chuckle bubbling up in Harry’s chest as James continued to sing nonsense. 

Harry ducked his head, tucking his chin into his chest to hide his smile, his hair falling into his eyes, potato sitting forgotten in his hands. James continued to inch closer, pushing his hair back against his head and fluttering his eyelashes, and if Harry had the heart to roll his eyes, he would. He was almost between Harry’s knees, the light beads of sweat clinging to his skin filling Harry’s nose along with his hot breath that smelled suspiciously like carrot. The kitchen continued to bustle around them, pots banging and water simmering, James’ blue eyes trained on Harry with laser point focus, something not unpleasant twisting in Harry’s stomach. James’ hands came to rest at Harry’s knees, tipping his head back as he belted out numerous bars, the vein in his neck bulging to the surface of his reddened skin. Harry pressed his lips together to futilely contain his expression, his eyes squinting and his dimple pressing into his cheek. 

James’ head snapped back down, gasping for oxygen as it stubbornly evaded him, his eyes matching Harry’s own smiling position. He laughed at him self breathily, using Harry’s knees to push himself forward, his mouth meeting Harry’s in a brief kiss. Harry’s stomach swooped, his heart clenching when James’ pulled back, his laugher still bubbling out from his chest. It seemed to go unnoticed in the chaos of the kitchen that erupted around them, James’ smile mischievous and slightly nervous. Harry tried his best to be mad, kicking his foot out until it connected with James’ shin, watching with slight guilty satisfaction as his delighted face morphed into one of pain. He jumped out of Harry’s reach as his leg struck out again, a smile reappearing across his face. He winked in Harry’s direction before spinning on his heal and bringing his carrot back up to his mouth, chasing Quinton around the island as he resumed singing at him. 

Harry shook his head fondly, ignoring the tingle on his lips, turning back to his forgotten potato. 

“Lads,” The gruff voice made Harry’s head snap up, James squeaking as his voice caught in the back of his throat. 

“Liam,” James shrilled, quickly hiding his carrot behind his back. “What’s up?”

The kitchen came to a standstill as all eyes turned to regard their leader standing in the doorway of their humble work place, pots continuing to bubble. Harry subtly slid off the island, his feet hitting the ground with a soft thud of footfall, his eyes not leaving the serious draw to Liam’s eyebrows. 

“I’m after Harry.” His eyes continued to skirt over the slightly surprised faces. 

“Me?” Harry said, more to himself than to anyone else, but it seemed to draw Liam’s attention towards his direction. 

“Ah, yes. Harry. How have you been?” He said almost conversationally as he stepped further into the kitchen.

“Um… Alright.” He sounded more unsure than he would have liked. Liam nodded, his hand landing heavily on Harry’s shoulder.

“I was hoping I could have a word.” It wasn’t a question as much as it was a command. Harry placed his half-peeled potato down to join its peeled counterparts.

James gave him a thumbs up and an encouraging smile as he passed. He followed Liam out of the kitchen, disregarding the feeling of every set of eyes burning into his back as they make their way further out. Liam stopped a few metres away, Harry almost colliding into him, catching himself at the last moment. The Glade’s leader spun on his heal to regard Harry, his eyebrows unmoving from their constant quizzical position over his eyes.

“Felix told me what you did this morning,” Liam began, watching Harry with a type of scrutiny, “With the new kid… Lewis?” 

“Louis.” Harry corrected him before his brain could catch up to what was coming out of his mouth. He bit into his bottom lip as he waited for a lecture about respecting authority, mentally preparing himself for the brunt of it. 

“Ah yes.” Liam smiled warmly and Harry sighed in relief, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “I spoke with Felix, and we both agree that you are the best candidate to,” Liam gestured vaguely, as if trying to find a suitable word. “Babysit him, for lack of a better expression.” 

“Wha-“ 

“You’ve proven you can handle yourself, with both of his convulsions and his manic episode. When he’s released from the infirmary you are to show him the ropes, figure out what he’s good at and find his a suitable job, keep an eye on him, be his friend.” Liam continued, ignoring Harry’s feeble attempts to interrupt.

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea.” Harry said honestly when Liam was quiet enough for Harry to get a word in. “I mean, I stuck him with a needle. I doubt he’ll trust me.” 

“This isn’t a negotiation.” Liam shook his head, his hand reaching up to squeeze Harry’s bicep. “You will be his shadow until he proves that he no longer needs someone to watch him. You start tomorrow.” 

With one last squeeze of his shoulder and a swish of material, Liam left Harry standing alone, his words dying on his tongue and his stomach plummeting to his feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One the topic of editing, I'm not against the idea of someone beta-ing this Maze Runner thing. If you're interested hmu :) xo


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